It’s been a week of many things. Most of them involved my Grandma and most of those involved food. She flew all the way to Rome “just to see me.” I’m a lucky girl, but I somehow know that taking her granddaughter grocery shopping wasn’t her only priority in coming to Italy. While I was in class, she toured Rome. When I wasn’t in class, we feasted on all the things I’ve wanted to eat but haven’t had the budget for.
Usually when I go out to dinner in Rome, it’s with my girlfriends, and usually we can all afford one pasta dish. Not with Grandma! Not only did I eat meat, but I decided that my moral compass didn’t work in Italy, and therefore, I could try veal. The first night, we ate veal wrapped in sage and prosciutto sautéed in lemon and white wine. That’s when I realized what I’ve been missing all these years. I can live without McDonalds, but veal might have to become a staple. That being said, I’d probably need Grandma here all the time to make that a possibility.
I showed her all around the different neighborhoods. We ate almost every traditional Roman dish: Carbonara, Amatricana, Saltimboca, Veal, Carcofi Romana…the list goes on.
On Friday, we said goodbye to Rome and headed for Napoli with the promise of gorgeous weather and ridiculous pizza. In our train car, we were graced with the presence of a diplomat. Or at least that’s what he says he is. Ancient beyond recognition, this man smelled like musky grandpa. He was a Napoli native and asked why in the world I would want to go there. “It’s dangerous,” he warned, getting all too close to my face. He introduced me to his “waiter” a Sri Lankan man who chuckled at everything Francesco said and happily obliged to his senile requests. The diplomat gave me his card in case we “got into trouble,” or just wanted to make a visit. When I woke up from my nap he asked, “did you sleep?” “I did!” He was overjoyed. With fascinated eyes he looked at me and questioned, “did you dreammmm?” “No, I didn’t dream.” This made him very sad. It soon left his thoughts, as he continued to remind me to call if I was in trouble until his waiter coaxed him off the train once we arrived in Napoli.
We arrived in the afternoon, and walked around the city for a few hours. I hate to say it, but I wasn’t impressed. Naples looked just like any other Italian town, with tall buildings decorated with hanging clothes, an overcrowded population, and lots and lots of trash in the streets. Grandma says the clothes offended her. I though they were the best part! The coastline view didn’t hurt, but that’s about all it had going for it. That, and the Margarita pizza. Named after the queen herself, this classic dish originates in Naples! Da Michele, “a not so nice ristorante,” as the man at the hotel put it, is stuffed in the hullaballoo of Naples. We knew we made the right choice when, upon approaching, we saw a horde of people waiting for their fill of pizza and beer. I grabbed a number, 43, and we waited. The inside of the restaurant was plain. The walls were white, trimmed with forest green tiles. There was a wood-burning oven in the back, where the only item on the menu was prepared for devouring. As we waited for ours, we watched the Napolitano ravage their pizzas, leaving not a drop of tomato sauce behind. Finally, ours arrived. The crust was much thicker than Roman pizza, but was also extremely moist. The pizza itself was soggy, in the best way possible. The cheese fell right off the gooey dough. Getting the three ingredients onto the fork was a task in and of itself! We ate the whole thing, and gobbled down a liter of water in the meantime. The total: six euro. Not bad!
On Saturday morning, we set sail for Capri! The water surrounding the island was crystal clear, and the land itself jutted straight out of the sea. It was one giant mountain, and the bus we took to access the Piazzetta had to scale the side of it back and forth back and forth, offering insane views of the tropical paradise.
But before we even set foot off the dock, we hopped on the last boat headed for the Grotto Azzura, or the Blue Cave. As we circled the island, headed for the other side, called Anacapri, I couldn’t help my dropped jaw. The beauty of the island and its surrounding waters was unbelievable. I just couldn’t believe I was actually there!
We arrived at the cave, were men in narrow rowboats awaited our arrival.
I stepped into one, followed by my Grandma, who gracefully lost her footing and plopped, back down, onto the rowboats floor. As we approached the cave, we were instructed to duck. The entrance was about a foot high, but the inside was hardly dark. Something about the way the light reflects on the water and off the cave walls causes the water to glow a bright neon blue color that illuminates the entire cave. For the short minute I was inside, the rowers sang and their voices echoed melodiously off of the walls. It was unreal. The entire day was unreal.
Back on the island, we walked around, discovered the Augustus Gardens and window-shopped in the posh designer shops that fill Capri’s storefronts. Everything on the island was pretty outdated, from the retro bus tickets to the even more vintage busses. The postcards were all clearly printed in the 80s, as was most of the merchandise sold in the non-designer stores. It wasn’t exactly topless beach weather, nor was I in exactly the right company to partake in those festivities, but I’ve got my whole life ahead of me, right?
Back in Naples, we feasted at Bersagliera, a seafood ristorante in a harbor filled with shiny white yachts. The menu was in Italian, so we were at the waiter’s mercy. He recommended a fish native to Naples. Everything on the menu looked reasonably priced, so we went for it. It was fabulously buttery and it fell apart with the slightest touch of the fork and melted in my mouth like cotton candy. Then, the bill came. Um. 45 euro? For a fish? That’s right folks. It cost 6.50 per 100 grams, and the fish was 700. Well, that happened, and it’s by far the most expensive fish I’ve ever eaten. That being said, I’m glad it happened with Grandma, and not with my roommates. I’d still be in Naples washing dishes.
Grandma and I just said our goodbyes over some more veal, this time an ossobucco, though she assures me that her’s is better. She’s sworn off Italian food for months, but I don’t know what’s wrong with her. I say, bring on the pasta!
No comments:
Post a Comment